It was mid morning
and the sun was warm
and Anne was in
her wheelchair
her stump visible
at the hem
of her red shirt

what's it do for you?
she asked me

what?

this sunshine
and warmth?

not much
I said

it should
it should make you
want to jump up
and dance around
shouting out
to the sun god
she said

you couldn't dance
with your one leg
I said

up you Kid
she said
glaring at me
up you as far
as it will go

well you couldn't
could you
I said
I mean
I would help you
if you wanted to
get up and dance
but on your own
you'd have a job

she sighed
if I want to
****** get up
and dance I will
she said

she heaved herself
out of the chair
and stood on
her one leg
and began to
hop about

until she fell over
and lay
on her back
staring
at the sky

how was that
for a fecking
dance then?
she said

a nursing nun
came walking
quickly over to us

get me up Kid
before the penguin
gets here

I helped her up
the best I could
but she
was heavier than I
and the nun reached us
just as Anne
was hauling
herself up
by holding
onto my body

what were you doing?
the nun asked

dancing
what's it look like?
Anne said

the nun helped
Anne back
into her wheelchair
and stood there
gazing at her

you're so rude Anne
the nun said
do you know
how many
complaints
there have been
about you?

who's counting
Anne said

it was my fault
I said
I asked her
to show me
how she danced

Anne looked
at me

the nun raised
an eyebrow
well you
should know better
Benedict
the nun said
then she walked off

you didn’t have
to lie for me
Anne said
but thanks
anyway Kid

she pulled her skirt
over her stump
and I
was pleased
by what I did.

Nothing special about the day,
Except when you sat
At that table in some street café,
And saw a young woman
Remove a rosy red apple
From her bag and brush it
Slowly against her dress
As if wishing to conjure up
A memory of some previous night.

You sat unnoticed, at least
By her, and watched her lift
The apple to her lips
And close her eyes.

The apple lingered
Held by her hand, barely
Inches from that soft
Red skin (maybe she was
Thinking of him, who made
Her the night before)
And the lips parting slightly,
Almost whispering, the tongue,
Like some pink snake, brushed
Along the lower flesh, the scent
Of apple touched her sense
Of smell like tickled ***.

You smiled to yourself,
Not her, as she opened her eyes
And took a bite and ate sedately.

(You’d not seen
That posh dame lately,
The one who stayed
And bruised your soul).

Maybe she was thinking
Of her night of love as she
Seduced each mouthful of juice
And joy and swallowed slow
And breathed the midday air.

Then she had gone,
Moved on with apple
And her memories and you
Left behind with those images
Of her and the apple
Captured in your memory,
An art form in your fertile mind.

She’s gone to sleep
Again, as she
Often does, but
This time on a
Train. Maybe she

Dreams of distant
Isles, bright sunshine
Beaches, clothed in
A bright green, ***
Gripping, skimpy

Bikini and
Surrounded by
To die for men,
Or maybe she
Dreams of her first

Date, the bought for
Her flowers, the
Big box of chocs,
The quick given
Kisses and the

Mismanaged ****
Or perhaps she
Dreams of the lost
Baby and the
Last long hold, or

Maybe she dreams
Of her husband
Beating her up
As he often
Did and leaving

Her out in the
Midnight’s cold, or
Perhaps she dreams
All these dreams in
Disorderly

Sequence like some
Nightmare show, all
Mixed up, drawn out
And slow. She’s gone
To sleep in a

Train, full of dark
Sorrow as she
Often is, so
Maybe she’ll not
Wake up again.

You were with Janice
in Jail Park

two kids
looking for kicks

and Janice said
Can you push me

on the swings?
and you said

Sure if you like
and got behind her

as she sat on the swing
her hands holding

the small steel rings
that held the wooden seat

of the swing in place
her legs kicking outward

like some young bird
about to take flight

for the first time
and you heaved

the seat of the swing forwards
you then let it go

and off she went
upwards and downwards

her cry of exhilaration
filled your ears

and you pushed her
more higher and higher

to her cries of
Higher and higher

then you stood back
and walked around

the front of her
as she rose up

her legs pushing
into the sky

her black shoes
touching the cloud’s skin

and you called out to her
Don’t let go

or you’ll fall
and she gripped

the small steel rings tighter
with her whitening hands

and her eyes
were wide

and her mouth opened
in a small O

and as her body
went by you

you pushed her once more
your hands pushing against

her summer dress
covered ****

and you sensed
the warmness of her

and the air
and her flying

like some young bird
way up there.

While her husband was off
fighting a war
in a foreign land
she gave birth
to a dead child.

He could have had home leave
have left the war
for other men to fight
have been by her side
in her darkest night,
but he chose to go to war
selected some overseas conflict
to get engaged in battle
leaving her an empty womb,
and a still born babe,
a vacant cot,
a silent rattle.

How long that one hold?
That caressing of one lost
what emotional cost?
While he was off
spilling blood
on a foreign shore,
she buried the child
in a small coffin
of her choosing.

While he was at war
in some other land,
she felt her grief grow;
all else, marriage,
mind’s peace,
heart’s love,
she had lost
or was loosing.

It's snowing,
Yiska says.

She's looking out
the window
of the locked ward.

I stand
just behind her,
peering over
her shoulder,
watching the large
flakes fall
in a steady flow.

Trees opposite
are becoming covered;
they look like brides
about to get married.

The fields beyond
are white, not green.

Picturesque from in here,
I say.

She runs a finger
down the pane,
a slim finger,
white/pink skin,
the nail chewed.

What was it like
on the day
you were to marry?
I ask.

Bright, sunny,
almost cloudless.

Bet you were glad
it didn't snow.

She looks back at me.

I wouldn't have cared less
if he had turned up
and not left me there
dressed up
like a doll abandoned.

I guess not,
sorry to
have reminded you.

She sighs,
looks back
at the snow.

Not your fault
he didn't show.

I shouldn't have
reminded you.

It's always there,
anyway,
like some dark
black nightmare.

We watch
the falling snow
in a few moments
of silence.

I can smell soap
about her,
maybe shampoo;
it invades my nose.

I close my eyes.

Sense her
just before me,
as if my senses
had fingers,
but not my fingers,
but invisible fingers
reaching out to her.

Don't think
I can trust
another man
to get me
down the aisle.

I open my eyes,
see her hair,
long,
unbrushed.

I would not
have jilted you.

It wasn't you
I was going to marry.

No, I guess not.

The snow falls harder;
I can hardly see
the trees now.

She looks back at me.

Want a cigarette?
she asks.

I nod.

She takes a packet
out of her
dressing gown pocket
and takes one
for herself
and gives one
to me.

She lights them
with a yellow
plastic lighter.

How'd you managed
to keep the lighter;
thought they took  
such things away
in case you try
and set yourself alight?

I liberated it
out of the staffroom
the other night.

We stand and smoke
and watch
the heavy fall
of snow.

Behind us,
others enter the room,
their voices talking
of the snow,
how heavy it is.

We can sense
their coming near us
like invading armies
on virgins lands,
unaware
we're holding hands.

Inside Burgos Cathedral
Miriam was in shorts
and tee-shirt
and I nearby

and a woman
next to her
said casa de Dios
Miriam said something

back in Spanish
and the woman
scowled at her
and moved away

muttering in Spanish
under her breath
what did she say?
I asked

Miriam said
the old bat
said this
was the house of God

and that I
was not dressed
correctly
I looked

at the woman
who was glaring
at Miriam
what did you

say to her?
I asked
I told her
go wash her *****

I nodded
and looked
at the glaring
Spanish dame

I spoke no Spanish
but whatever
the dame was muttering
didn't sound

like a blessing
I tried to focus
on the mass
the words(now

in Spanish not Latin)
Miriam folded
her arms
her eyes sharp

as pencils
her red hair
tight curls
smelling of sun oil

and scent
a guy in front
had his eyes closed
muttering a prayer

in Spanish
the priest
at the altar
was colourful

like a beetle
arms out stretched
Miriam whispered
I'll need a drink

after this
and something more
later in the tent
she smiled at me

her eyes bright
and alive
and mischievous
I had lost my way

in the mass
but the beetle priest
was lifting the host
Christ was present

and I bet
the old Spanish dame
was giving Him
the low down

on Miriam
but I knew
He'd understand
His love

was wide and deep
and Miriam and her promises
would have to wait
and keep.

Unforgettable.
The tall girl he saw
Getting on the bus

And who then sat down
Opposite him with
Her short skirt and big

Black sunglasses that
Covered her eyes. That
Was last May. He can

Still picture her now
Today: the short skirt,
The blonde hair, the way

The big sunglasses
Reflected their small
Images of him

Sitting opposite.
She never spoke; just
Stared straight ahead her

Focus on something
Beyond him as far
As he could decide.

Maybe she was just
Avoiding his gaze,
Looking over his

Head or shoulder, or
Perhaps something more
Importance caught her

Gaze or interest.
He’d never know, just
Speculation on

An incident of
The past. But he still
Couldn’t get her out

Of his mind. Sometimes
He thought he saw her
On other buses

On different days,
But it wasn’t, it
Was just some who

Wore sunglasses the
Same or a short skirt
Similar in its

Colour or design.
He regrets now not
Speaking or asking

Her name or potted
Biography in
The short time allowed.

He’s not seen her since
Outside of his mind
Or occasional

Dream, just the false hope
Of seeing her once
More someplace with big

Sunglasses, short skirt,
Blonde hair and her bright
Angel looking face.

All and all in the dying dream,
And the lost girls scream for the pretty years,
And the fears of light has scraped their bones

To tones of harsh and brutal sounds.
All and all in the breaking dawn,
The dead and born have shed their skins

For the seeping sins of he and she,
Who groped to be with flesh and lust,
Who rust their souls in damp and dust,

And must, might, and sickly kiss
The mouldy miss of dames and such,
And loved her sad and all too much.

Christina sat outside
the science block
for the school photo

she and others in her class
some sitting
others standing

boys and girls
the teacher standing
to one side

gesturing
with her hands
for composition

the photographer
by his camera
setting things

to light and shade
and who was where
and to what degree

Christina wishing
it all over
to get lunch

out the way
to see Benedict
on the sports field

after lunch
up by the fence
or by the edge

of the woods
the teacher whispering words
hush hush

she said
now everyone be still
hold that pose

everyone stiffened
one or two grin
or look away

at the last second
but Christina sat
as if frozen

her mind elsewhere
thinking of that day
she took Benedict

home for lunch
(her mother's suggestion)
and after soup

and bread and tea
her mother gone off
to shop

she took Benedict
to tour the house
inside and out

and up the stairs
and said
this is my room

and opened the door
and they stood
looking in

the curtains drawn
the room fresh polished
the bed made

her clothes put away
(thank God)
her doll lying on top

(an old gift
still loved)
she hesitated

looking in
he beside her
their hands within inches

of touching
he said
nice room

neater than mine
and she wished
he could take her there

so she could stare
and maybe
but he lived too far

from school
for her to go
as she lived

in the town
of the school
a mere few minutes walk

downstairs
her mother's voice calling
just coming

Christina said
Benedict wanted the loo
and they walked downstairs

he in deep thought
she thinking what if
they'd been caught

once more
the photographer said
everyone keep that pose

and her thoughts moved on
to that other time
up near the wood

on the sports field
and he talking
of some teacher gone

from school
who had taken pupils
home during lunch

and she was thinking
of how near they stood
to the wood

and if only they could
but what?
she asked herself

what if they had
what would it involve?
instinct and desires

the kissing
and holding
and him being near

but what else?
ok that will do
the teacher said

all done now
the photographer said
and they were free

to move
and walk
and she moved

and got ready
to go for lunch
then see Benedict

on the field
by the fence
or by the nearby wood

and find out
what else
if she could.

And the young schmuck said,
How’s about a nice
Pretty photograph,



Girls, something to show
The folks back home, you
In your beautiful



Bathing costumes, so
Young and so well wrapped
Up there? Sure, Betsy



Said, why not, though don’t
Think my daddy’d be
Too pleased about me



In this here costume.
You looked at the schmuck
And tried hard not to



Imagine the dark
Working of his brain,
What images lay



There, what ******
Thoughts swirled around there
Like black oil in a



Sump. Sally looked just
Away from him, looked
Further up the beach



Or maybe the sea
Or sky, anywhere
But the young guy with



The camera, her
Being the quiet
Type and shy. But you



Knew his type, they were
Like haemorrhoids: a
Huge pain in the ****,



Always there with the
Words, the wise cracks, with
Their slimy sayings;



But you knew all they
Ever wanted from girls,
Beyond the mouthy



Outpourings, was you
In the bed or some
Secret place and to



Be undressed and to
Copulate with, to
Have their way; but not



With you; you knew the
Goings on, you knew
Which way those kind of



Things ended and you
Knew that even though
Betsy gave him the



Smile and ease, she’d not
Settle for such a
Creep with his false smile,



Wheedling words or
Bright eyed stare. So he
Took his photograph



And you were captured
There on the beach in
New Orleans amongst



The other young folk,
Beneath a sky of
Blue, in your bathing



Costumes, beautiful
And youthful in the
Year of our sweet Lord,
1922.

You **** the socks; listen
To the radio; look
At the hole slowly get

Smaller and smaller. Jazz
From some far off station;
A tune you recognize,

Your foot taps up and down
To the beat. You smile; nod
Your head; let your deep thoughts

Slowly unravel like
A flower. Was that Bud
Powell? You ask, slipping the

Needle through the dark black
Material, easing
The thread through. But where was

Jack? Late. Usually he
Was home by now. You pause
Your fingers; stare at the

Needle; listen for sounds
Other than the jazz. Jack
Said he would be here his

Usual time, you tell
Yourself, looking at the
Clock on the wall. Stillness

And only Bud playing
In the background to your
Thoughts. Maybe he’s had an

Accident? Perhaps he’s
Been robbed of his wage? So
Terrible these days, the streets.

Your thoughts run amok like
Mischievous children.
You stare at the sock on

Your hand. Jack’s sock. **** these
For me, he had asked that
Morning. You push the small

Needle through again, pull
It out and slowly ease
It towards you. Maybe

He’s been caught in traffic
Or the train is late or…
Is that the door? You put

Down the sock and go to
The door. Two policemen stand
There; Bud plays soft in the

Background of the room; your
Feet no longer tap; your
Head sinks to your breast; far

Off some news is about
To break like a tidal
Wave against the calm coast

Of your life and drown you
In the great sea of grief.

I am sitting
on the brick
and concrete
bomb shelter
with Fay;
she is looking
at the coal wharf,
I am sorting
cigarette cards
to swap at school.

Do you know
where Jesus was born?
She asks.

In a stable wasn't it;
laid him in a manger,
I think it says.

She nods.

But in St Matthew
it says the Magi
came to the house.

Who were Magi?

The three Wise Men,
although it doesn't
actually say
how many there were,
it just says they.

I put the cigarette cards
in my jacket pocket
and gaze at her.

What's it matter?
People will believe
what they want to believe.

But the nuns said
it's the truth,
Fay says.  

I like her
pale complexion,
her blue eyes
and her fair hair,
well groomed
by her mother.

When I asked Daddy
he said not
to question the nuns,
but to accept
what they said.

I look at her light
blue flowery dress,
the white ankle socks,
the black shoes.

What do you think?
she asks.

Perhaps he was born
in a stable,
but they moved him
into a house
before the Wise Guys
got there,
I say, not caring
a hoot,
but wanting
to ease her worry.

Do you think so?

Sure,
makes sense to me,
I say, seeing
a coal wagon
leave the coal wharf
drawn by a large horse.

But in pictures
in my Bible
it shows them
entering a stable
with shepherds.

I watch the coal wagon
go along
Rockingham Street
and out of sight
under the railway bridge.

What's the truth?
She asks,
looking at her hands
in her lap.

I don't know,
Sweetie, I reply,
and I couldn't
give a crap.

Perhaps tomorrow
I can hang
around with him
Sheila thinks of

the boy John
but after dinner
and bed
and dreams of him

and such
maybe then
it will be that way
she sits at the table

as her mother
brings meals
and she opposite
her brother

and  next to her father
on one side
and her mother
on the other

when she sits down
and all Sheila can do
is eat but ponder
on the boy

and what he will say
and she tries
to keep him at bay
in her mind

and thoughts
as she eats
but he keeps on
pushing through

into her thoughts
and being
and her brother says
why the long face?

what do yo mean?
the long face
he repeats
like you've lost

a long lost love
he adds laughing
you do look
kind of miserable

her father says
trouble at school?
no nothing
she says  

pushing her thin
wired glasses
up on her nose
where they'd slipped

long lost love indeed
her mother says
she don't need no
love nonsense yet

if at all
Sheila looks
at the clock
on the mantel shelf

the tick tock of it
trying to focus on
the tick tock
bet she's found

some boy to
swoon over
her brother jokes
holding his fork

half way to his mouth
don't know any boys
she says
don't want to either

she adds
good for you
her father says
enough to worry about

with school without
the added problems
with boys
and that lark

young girls
have no need of boys
her mother says
sitting regal in her chair

pushing back
a loose strand of hair
Sheila tries to smile
as if its' all a joke

as if I need a boy
to add to my life
and woes
what woes do you have

her father says
young kid like you?
she says nothing
forking in her meal

hoping the boy
will let her
go about
with him still.

Miss G walks
down the aisle
between desks

the Chopin
playing loud
from an old

gramophone
on her desk
Reynard sits

beside me
his eyes closed
pretending

he likes it
but really
in his head

he's thinking
of football
Yochana

sits at front
her dark hair
shoulder length

her elbows
on the desk
her thin hands

together
the fingers
counting time

such fingers
so stick like
I study

how they move
fingers tips
pacing time

her thin frame
her profile
as she turns

angelic
but too pale
and the cheek

which I kissed
some weeks back
seems to wait

(I presume)
for me to
kiss again

but slower
the next time
not a peck

but a big
hot smacker
of my lips

on her cheek
or soft lips
or neck or

wherever.

Della lays in bed.
The moon is full
shines through the
window. Her mother

seemed angry, about
her getting into the
car, with the man who
was her mother's friend.

Shouting voice, long words.
The police questioned
the man about it, but
nothing was done, so

he was released with
a warning, not to pick
her up again. She liked
the car. The seat was

comfortable. Springy
over bumps. The man
said: do you want to see
the ducks? She likes ducks,

like the colours, the way
they seem to glide on water.
The man said that she was
very pretty, she liked it

being said she was pretty,
many tell her she's ugly,
a duckling, a plump *****,
whatever that was. She

watches as the moon seems
to drift across the window,
clouds cover it and uncover
it like a magic trick, she smiles.

The man said she had nice
legs and eyes. She liked  him
for saying nice things. Some
boys at school call her monkey

face. She saw the man's hand
touching her leg. She thought
his hand was warm, soft touching.
He never said anything about

her being Downs. He never
seemed to mind her tongue
sitting on her lower lip when
she spoke, never made fun of her

as some girls did when she spoke
to them. She liked seeing the ducks,
the colours, the way they swam.
He held her hand. He said in case

she fell and her mother would be
worried. His hand was hairy, the
hairs tickled her. After the ducks
he put her seatbelt on, leaning over

her. He said her perfume was lovely.
He was kind to kiss her hand; some
boys squeeze it to make her cry.
Her mother is angry, she hasn't told

her mother about the man kissing;
she got so angry about the car ride.
She said nothing more. Looked at
the fire in her mother's eyes; her

shouty voice hurt her ears. She
closes her eyes. The police lady
asked her questions. Some words
she didn't know, she just shook

her head, said nothing more.
Her mother wide eyed crying.
All because of a car ride. Della
liked the car, the colours, the

smell of leather on the seats.
The man had a nice smell; his
voice soft and deep. She hears
the wind outside. Time to sleep.

The dance has exhausted,
the muscles pull
and become taut
and tense.

She remembers
Marcel’s taunt:
she could not dance
after such a night

of ***. She leans over,
ties tighter
her shoes, her
fingers fumbling,

her back aching,
limbs trembling.
She looks up,
sees the other

dancers in line,
pulling at dresses
and tights,
hair in place.

She rises, pulls
at her dress, tidies
her hair, stands
in line, trying

to focus, mind
on the now, not
last night, not on
the ***. ****,

maybe Marcel
was right.

Abela sits
in the café
in the town square.

She's ordered coffee
from the waiter
with the dark moustache
who had given her
a smile
and his dark eyes
had explored her
as he moved away.

Benedict has a headache
and sleeps back
at the hotel.

They had had a row.

Words were said.

She recalls them
as she waits
for the coffee.

You were gawking at her?

I was merely looking.

You slavered
as she walked
by our table.

She wore
a strong perfume.

Benedict undressed.

Your eyes were out
like telescopes,
watching her
Yugoslavian ****.

You imagine things;
I was thinking
of her black
waitress dress.

Abela undressed.

You were thinking
of what was beneath
the black dress.

I wasn't,
you imagine
these things,
you're jealous.

He put on
his pyjamas.

Abela stood
in her underwear
staring at him.

Me?
Jealous of her?
That ******.

She's not a ******,
she's a waitress
at the hotel.

Benedict climbed
into bed.

Abela put on
her nightdress.

Your tongue
was hanging out
as she passed
the table;
she almost
fell over it.

You should be
a column writer
for a gossipy magazine.

You should admit
your guilt.

You should
open your eyes.

Abela got into bed,
pulled up the cover,
turned over
with her back to him.

No ***, then?

Not then or now.

She switched off
her side lamp
and he switched off
his side lamp.

Music played
from a bar nearby.

Voices laughed;
a girl screamed.

Abela's coffee comes,
brought by the waiter
with the dark moustache
and dark eyes.

His eyes seem
to undress her
as he walks away;
his black trousers
caressing
his fine behind.

She sips her coffee,
but he is there,
caressing her
in her mind.

You would have loved
Edinburgh Ole
another place
you never got to see

you wanted to go
I know
I could have been
your guide

I know the place
like the back
of my proverbial hand
could have taken you

along Princes Street
taken you up
Scott's Monument
up the narrow stairs

to the top
or in the gardens below
with flowers
and seats

the bushes
or up
the Royal Mile
with all its history

and sights
we could have gone
into the Castle
and viewed

each historical inch
(you would have
dug that all
that silent history

waiting
to be ****** in)
the one 0' clock gun
the view from the top

over all the city
but I can see you now
making your own
way there

(in spirit)
in your own
good time
walking in

your own casual pace
in your Doors tee-shirt
and blue jeans
the dark shades

the hair fresh cropped
short maybe
showing the scars
your smile(great smile)

taking in
a few bars
on the way
breathing in

the smell of beer
and scotch a
small taster
in your silver case

in your back pocket
you standing
on Arthur's Seat
having walked

to the top
(maybe breathless)
and seeing
the horizon

beyond the City's touch
enjoy Ole
make it
when you can

miss you
my son
my Ole
my man.

This is the pond
she called your lake,
trees still surround,
similar sky,
birds sing,
but she has gone,
cancer ridden,
to an early plot.

This is where you sat
and talked
and laughed,
this green grass,
grows still,
flowers near by,
but she had been taken
death's finger
judged her ripe to die.

This is the sky
beneath which
you lay,
eyes focusing
on clouds move
and shape
and size,
but she is no more,
cancer
caressed her
and it gave
deadly kiss;
it is not sky
or bird or flower,
but she you miss.

This is where
she lay
and kissed
and held your hand
and loved you deep,
but she has died
of cancer's curse,
its deadly touch,
she has gone
and is missed
so much.

It wasn't until Rowland
poked my elbow
in music class and said
hey Benny
look at the titless
one at the front
with the blonde ******

I looked to where
his finger pointed
that I noticed Yochana
for the first time
sitting at the front of class
with a blonde girl
who was shorter
but that hardly
made her a ******

-Rowland and his humour-

I studied her as Miss G
talked about Schubert
and his music
and his life

I noted the thinness
of her body

- Yochana's not
Miss G's-

the black hair
smooth and shiny
and I never thought
about her titlessness
at time but something
about her caught my eye

later after the kissing
on the cheek thing
and the day after
I kissed her hand
I waited for her
at the end of biology class
when she came out
with her friend
the blonde haired Angela

-Rowland went onto
the tuck shop
and then to
morning recess-

when she saw me there
and I smiled
she shooed her friend off
and waited by the wall

she said
are you waiting for me?

shouldn't I?

why would you?

why not?

do you always answer
questions with a question?

do you?

she smiled
and looked me
in my hazel eyes
what did you want?
she asked

to talk with you
I said

is that all?

anything else
on offer?

what other else?

I don't know yet
but I'm sure
I can think
of something
I said

I'm sure you can
she said
is that it?

are you in a rush?

my friend's waiting for me
she replied

can't your girlfriend
wait a bit longer?

she'd not my girlfriend
she's a friend
who is a girl
she said defensively

I dreamed of you
last night
I said

did you?

no you wouldn't let me

let you what?

Miss G passed us by
and walked down
the corridor
giving us
a backward stare

kiss you
I said

shame
Yochana said

yes it was
I said

we stood in the corridor
a few seconds in silence
kids passing by

you kissed my hand
the other day
isn't that enough?
she said

no
a glimpse of heaven
isn't enough
until you get there
I said

she looked past me
then at the kids
passing by

not here
maybe lunch time
some place quiet
we can maybe kiss
she said

then touching
my hand briefly
she walked off
down the corridor

and I watched her going
with a kind of yearning
my inner soul
and my body
burning.

She lay beside you
under the apple trees

the bees and butterflies overhead
the glimmer of sunlight

through the branches
and she said

I can smell the apples
from here

and if I close my eyes
I feel I’m in a foreign field

lying in some overseas orchard
and happy beneath the sun

and you turned your head
and said

Am I with you
lying in that orchard

beneath a foreign sun?
and you studied her profile

the shadows dancing
across her cheek

a butterfly just above her head
Sure

she said
As if I’d dream of anywhere

without you by my side
and she reached out a hand

and touched your fingers
with hers and it seemed

a pulse danced
between the fingers

as if love momentarily
could be felt

could be sensed
in the space

between fingers
and riding

in the hearts
and heads

and she turned
to face you

her eyes reflecting
a different sun

and your hand sliding
along her thigh

and she shaking
her head slightly

eased out
a soft sigh.

Ana, your father says,
where is the vase
your grandma gave to me?

You look at him
with your large eyes.
Not seen it, maybe

it is in the lounge
with the others?
You say.

No, I have looked there,
it is not there,
he says,

then I do not know,
Papa, you say,
looking away,

trying not to show it
in your big brown eyes,
your childlike lies.

He sighs, doesn't look
in your eyes, maybe
knowing somehow,

that you broke
the family heirloom,
but not wanting

to push it too far,
waits until you regain
your conscience to say,

if not now,
then some other day.

You turn
and gaze down
at Ness
by the stream,

her back bent,
her arm pecking
at the canvas
like a hungry bird.

You remember one like her,
the long hair
down the back,
the eyes

a piercing blue,
the mouth sensual,
full of words.
She has that sensuality

you fear, mistrust and lack.
You let your eyes
move over
her figure

like a sculptor,
smoothing out,
feeling the rough
and smooth, sensing

the secret places
where darkness looms,
easing out sharpness
and unwanted pieces.

Sidney was 5’2’
and weighed 200lbs
and was 79 years old

and each morning
you had to clean him up
and wash and dry
and powder him
and dress him
in his old clothes

but this morning
having done all that
he said
you don’t know
what war is like
you youngsters

he had broken
his usual silence
words instead of grunts
communication
instead of his own
quiet conversation
beneath breath

it’s not like it’s seems
in the films

I guess not
you said
and sat beside him
on the unmade bed

and he told you
of life in the trenches
of blood and guts
and men without arms
or legs or heads
lying there exposed

he paused now
and then
to look
at his arthritic hands
the fingers bent
the nails fresh clipped

he said
I stumbled
into this woods once
by mistake
and there they were
hundreds of bodies
mostly dressed in uniforms
bloodied some
but mostly just lying there
piled in some areas
like hunks of meat
and one of two
were by my feet
as if asleep

here he stopped
and looked at you
young as you
some were
fresh faced
blank of eye
sans gaze
sans life
some one’s husband
or lover or father
or brother

he paused
to stroked his head
with his bent fingers  

never forgotten that
he said
those carcasses
the silent soldiers
the forgotten dead

he was quiet after that
and you got him
off the bed
and on his way
on his frame
along the passage
to the dining room
shuffling
at his own pace
with short moustache
and war memories
lined
on his warrior face.

Benny's on the edge
and he can't quite
pull himself back
from it

and o sure
Sonya says
it'll be ok
he knows it's

just words
and words are like
spittle in the wind
at the moment

let's go
to the coast
and see the sea
that'll make you ok

sure a bit of seascape
it'll do the trick
and so they go
and it's a long

bus ride away
the other passengers
other riders
of a storm maybe

by the look
on the faces
anyway they go
jogging along

by the bus
he looking out
the window untalkative
she rabbiting on

like talking
was going out
of fashion  
and he shuts her out

just nods his head
now and then
and turns
and smiles

like some broken
hearted clown  
and his mind dark
as one in a storm

shutting up shutters
bolting up doors
then after an hour
they're there

the seascape
the beach full of stones
not sand
and there stand

gaping
she talking
of the time
they stayed before

and had ***
for hours on end
in that cheap hotel
back in town

but he just gazes
lifelessly
with the fixed grin
of a saddened clown.

I ride on my bike to the farmhouse
with Milka's brothers
after Saturday morning work

we dismount
and I wait with my bike
while they go in

there is a dull sun
and a wind coming across
the fields

won't you come in?
Milka's mother asks
gesturing to me
from the doorway

sure I will
I say
and walk to the house
and go into the warm kitchen

cup of tea and toast?
she asks me
the boys have gone upstairs
to change

yes that'd be nice
I say

I look about the kitchen
at the pots and pans
and shelves and cups
and the large oven range
and the table and chairs
in the corner  

sit down Benny
she says

I sit down
and she is busy
with cups and toast

I listen out to hear
if Milka is about
I watch her mother
fuss about with things
to one side

Milka about?
I ask

if she knows you're here
she'll be up
and dressed in seconds
the mother says
not turning around

I hear voices upstairs
laughter
shouts
and then Milka
come down
and into the kitchen

they said you were here
and I didn't believe them
as they are always
teasing me about you
she says

where have you been?
her mother asks

tidying my room
like you have asked me too
Milka says

about time too
never seen such a mess hole
when I was a young girl
we had to keep
our rooms tidy
the mother says

Milka pulls a face
behind her mother's back
it's done now
she moves towards me
and kisses me quickly
on the cheek

I hold her hand
and squeeze

I suppose you
want breakfast now?

yes please
Milka replies

her mother says
what do you want?

I'll get it
Milka says

she goes off to the larder
and I watch her move
her blue skirt
and white top
the buttons open
at the neck too low
(her mother would say)
the legs
the way she sways
her hips
as she walks

here you are Benny
the mother says
and hands me
a plate of buttered toast
and a cup of tea

thank you
I say

and she moves off
to the other room
and I hear her move about

Milka says
didn't know
you were coming here today?

thought you might
like to see the new Elvis film
I say

she smiles
sure if Mum'll let me
she says

she goes off
to see her mother
in the other room

I eat the toast
and sip the tea
and listen

there are hushed voices
and few sighs
then more voices

it'll be my treat
I say
I’ll treat her

Milka and her mother
come into the kitchen

it's not that
the mother says
it's just that
she's been grounded
the weekend
for misbehaviour

I look at Milka
who pouts her lips
and looks at me

I see
I say

and look at the mother
she gazes at me
and her eyes
are soft and brown

and she says
but I don't see why
you should be deprived
of her company
because of her naughtiness
she will not be allowed out
next Saturday though
she says

Milka beams
and her face lights up

and I say
thank you
I’ll have her back
in good time

the mother stares
at her daughter
and I mean about next week
she says

I know
Milka says

her mother goes off
to the other room
we kiss
and she goes off
upstairs to get ready

I finish my toast
and tea
thinking to myself
lucky me.

Baruch could hear
Fay's father
bawling her out
along the balcony

his  Catholic platitudes
filling the air
he watched
from a safe distance

as Fay's fair hair
was caught
by sunlight
her father's

dark expression
like black clouds
on a summer's day
Pater Nosters

rose and fell
then he went indoor
and left her
standing there

the echo of his voice
staining the air
Baruch waved to her
and she descended

the stairs
to the balcony below
and along
where Baruch stood

what was that all about?
he asked
the nuns
reported me

meeting you
after school
the other day
she said

your daughter
is meeting the Jew
they'd said
he said

Fay looked back
behind her
as she touched
Baruch's arm

you're not to meet
the Jew boy
he was shouting
said he'd give me

a good hiding
if I saw you again
she said
looking up

at the balcony above
Baruch looked
at her fair hair
let loose

unfettered by bow
or ribbon
over her
blue dress

guess we mustn't
be seen then
he said softly
by Burton's window

in half hour
she said
and fled
along the balcony

and up the stairs
to her father's flat
Baruch watched
her go

the sway
of her dress
the hair in flow
then gone

from sight
just going out
he said
to his mother

at her ironing
in the front room
ok
she said

be careful
and so he
went down the stairs
and across the Square

down the *****
and along Rockingham Street
under the railway bridge
and along by

the back
of the cinema
and on to
the New Kent Road

down the subway
along the echoing passage
thinking of Fay
and her father

and his ways
he whistled
as he walked
his sound echoing

along the walls
a Hebrew tune
he'd heard
whistling loud

like a noisy bird
then up the steps
to the place to meet
by Burton's window

on the corner
of St George Road
traffic
racing by

waiting for Fay
her beauty
to greet
his Jewish eye.

The tall monk
with the large keys;
his way of opening up

the door to the church
as if moving the stone
from the tomb of Christ,

the key having done its job
is placed back
in his black habit pocket.

I polish the choir stalls
with duster
and an old tin

of polish;
I recall her lips
******* me

to a heaven.
The squat monk
pulled weeds

from the side bed,
the sun on his
bent tonsure head.

I’d just come back
from Somerset
the night before
after staying

with an aunt and uncle
and was walking down
from the Square
when Enid

was walking up
from the baker shop
off of Rockingham street
I’ve missed you

she said
got back last night
I said
her left eye

was bluey green skin
how’s your old man?
I asked
still thumping

his daughter happily?
she looked away
up at the flats
behind us

I walked into
a lamppost
she said
wasn’t looking

where I was going
I noticed four
finger size bruises
on her arm

but said nothing
about them
yes I know lampposts
kind jump out at you

when you pass by
she looked at me
I ought not
talk to you

she said
why?
my father said
he doesn’t like you

and I mustn’t
talk to you
but you are
I said

besides
I don’t like
your old man either
so that make us

kind of balanced
I better go
she said
but stayed

looking at me
if I see your old man
on the stairs
of the flats

I’ll trip him up ok?
no no
she said
her mouth

staying open
I was kidding Enid
relax
she gripped

the white paper
bag of rolls
in her hand
and looked up

at the flats
missed you
she whispered
glad you’re

back again
and I watched her
walk up the *****
to the flats

the sky was dark grey
promising rain.

It’s hot and you don’t feel
Like sitting down to write
The postcard to the parents,

But it has to be done or they’ll
Worry and Father will have
One of his turns and Mother

Will be flapping round like
A **** hen with no head, so
You take a chair by the window

Of the Hotel Cuba and think
What to write, what to put
Down in the limited space

Allowed, and not to write
Anything that’ll stir Father’s
Christian sensibilities or

Mother’s little world of tea
And visits and afternoon naps
And speaking to the canary

Who doesn’t speak back.
You wait for Humphrey to
Come back from the bar

Hoping he’ll come up with
Things to say, but he doesn’t
Show and its getting late

And it’s been a busy day and
The night looms large and
You want Humphrey at his

Best, not too boozed, not
Distracted, and on the whole
He’s quite a fair catch, knows

How to please a girl, keep her
On her toes and back and that
Thing he does with the…Dear

Father and Mother, Cuba’s quite
A place…there was this man
Who kissed my hand and Dear

Humphrey said…the sun’s warm
And the food is out of this world
…I can dance the latest dances

Here, nothing that is suspect or
Need worry you…I will send this
Postcard in the morning, God I’m

Tired, keep on yawning, must be
The heat… You sit back and put
Down the pen and look up as

Humphrey returns doing some
Movements with his feet to some
Music playing and he smiles and

Winks and does a twirl…Sleep tight
Parents…it’s going to be one of
Those night for she's a naughty girl.

Coming out
of Mr Dubbin’s room
you saw Sophia
standing there

with mop and bucket
and that Bardot smile
I thought you’ be
up here somewhere

she said
putting down
the mop and bucket
I’m busy Sophia

I need to get baths done
before lunchtime
she placed a hand
across the doorway

to block you in
surely you don’t want
to rush off
without being with me

a few moments?
she said
moving in closer
her perfume hitting you

her eyes focusing
on each feature
and muscle move
not just now

you said
maybe later
she stood nearer to you
her thigh blocking

any further movement
without you touching her
what would people think
if I said you tried to kiss me?

she said softly
but I haven’t
you said
we know that

but others don’t
she said
but that would be a lie
you said

sure
she said
but all is fair
in love and war

they say
you felt the door handle
behind you
and pushed it down

and the door opened
and you walked back
in the room
and she followed

and closed the door
behind her
and stood there
the Bardot smile

in place once more
I’ve got work to do
you said
baths to do

she pushed you back
on Mr Dubbin’s bed
and moved on top of you
and lay there

gazing down at you
isn’t this nice?
she asked
isn’t this better

than bathing
old men?
or wiping
old men’s arses?

I’m paid to do that
not this
you said
feeling her taut ****

pressing into your chest
her hands each side
of your head
on the bed

kiss me
she whispered
not now
you said

I have only to scream
and people will come running
and see you
on the bed with me

she said
her blonde hair caught
sunlight from the window
across the room

her eyes studied you
reflecting your image
in both pupils
you kissed her lips

sensed the skin
the waxy lipstick
the parting of her mouth
the red lips

ah
she said softly
that was good
was it not good?

she asked
you nodded
wanting her
to get up and go

and yet
as she moved off
and stood
by the door

and smiled
her Bardot smile
you wanted
(much against

your better judgment)
for her to stay  
and kiss some more
awhile.

Milka  wanted
to have ***
in the hay barn

but she feared
the rats and mice
or her father

finding out
and tanning
her backside

the colour
of sunset
so we went

to the cinema
and saw Elvis
with jangling guitar

and swinging hips
and after
we went  

to the park
and sat
on a bench

and watched
the ducks swim
but the hay barn

would have been better
despite the rats
or mice

or the tanned
backside
the colour

of sunset
she said
I bet.

I gazed into her deep eyes;
there men's souls were lost;
love was there, but what the cost.

When she fainted
at the bus stop in the town
and others gathered

around her
you stood watching
anxious of her

being such
but not wanting others
to know of you and she

(her choice)
you stood looking
through the crowd

of what you could
of her
the glimpse

of black hair
the yellow flowered dress
a white sock

then she was up
and someone
brushed her off

Jane gazed at you
pale white
her lips bluish

her dark eyes
black olives
on white plates

and next day(Sunday)
after church
she walked over to you

and(no one noticing)
you and she wandered off
beyond the hedge

her father shaking hands
at the porch of church
her mother talking

of some fete
and the making of cakes
Jane taking your hand

settled by a higher hedge
and whispered
glad you never came

to me yesterday
when I fainted
that would have set

the tongues wagging
I thought that too
you said

she smiled
why did you faint?
you asked

not sure
Mum thinks
it's my time of month

or some such thing
you looked puzzled
unsure what her time

of month was
or what it meant
(13 years old

as both you were)
I see
you said

but didn't
anyway
she said

feel better today
and then she talked
of a butterfly she'd seen

sounding like
some lady or other
you stared at her

the eyes bright
the skin still pale
her hand in yours

the scent of apples
freshly picked
her warmth on yours

her words silk like
whispering to you
and you thought

of the Sunday before
the walk up the Downs
the hand in hand

kind of thing
you thinking
of her nearness

something stirring
within
and she talking

of the spread of flowers
colours
design

petals
and how bees
come and go

and you sensing
each touch of her
skin on skin

her thumb stroking
the back of your hand
then someone called her name

beyond the hedge
over from the church
and letting go

of your hand
she walked back
leaving you to stare

and wonder and wish
as you walked back
another way

the churchyard
with its many dead
the flowers

the smells of summer
and you watching
wanting her instead.

Her mother cries;
shouts vibrate
the passageway,
her father bellows
four letter words
that seem to pull
at Enid's ears.

She sits
on the side
of her bed
half dressed,
waiting for the row
to end before
she ventures out
for breakfast and school.

There's a bruise
over her right eye,
it fills out
like a painted blob.

She caresses herself
against the sounds;
bites her lip
in anticipation
of her father's return.

A door slams shut;
silence filters in.

She can hear
her mother's sobs,
deep throated,
gut wrenching.

Enid stands up
and goes
to her bedroom door,
peers out;
he's gone;
her mother's
in the kitchen,
sobs echoing.

Enid shuts the door
and gets dressed;
her stomach
is rumbling;
her hair
is in a mess;
the bruise spreads
like a red
and blue stain.

After breakfast
and her mothers' silence,
Enid goes off
to school
and meets Benny
by the Square's *****.

You've got a bruise.

I know,
banged my head
against a door.

Same door
as last time?
Benny asks.

She looks back
at the block of flats.

Same one.

Benny walks beside her
as they go down
the ***** and onto
Rockingham Street,
his eyes scanning her,
taking in the untidy hair,
the bruise,
the smell of damp cloth.

What's upset
your old man, now?

Who says he's upset
about anything?

The bruise
over your eye.

She looks at him:
the hazel eyes,
the quiff of hair
over his forehead,
the small smile
that isn't a smile,
but seems like one.

Accident,
he didn't mean to.

You're accident prone;
running into doors
and fists
and backhanders.

She stops
and stares at him:
not your business.

Benny stares back at her:
who's then?

She walks on,
brushing at her hair,
dabbing at the bruise.

She hates arguments
and rows,
she always seems
to lose.

And she's no more
A ****** than that
Magdalene who

Dried the feet
Of Christ with
Her hair, said

O'Brien, giving
You the wink and
Nodding towards

The girl at the bar
With the skirt way
Above the knees,

Carrying a tin for
Some charity, laughing
With O'Connell, giving

You the eye and O'Brien
The pip and shaking
The tin around the bar,

Like some ***** in
Biblical times ringing
Their bell and old Mrs

Murphy smiled a smile
Broader than her hips,
And you shaking your

Young head, looked back
At the girl and her tin
And the way she walked

To the door with the
Backside sweet enough
To fill a thousand dreams.

Elaine ate her sandwiches
in the lunch room
sitting on a stool
eyes lowered

trying not to listen
to others
in the room
not wanting

to draw attention
to herself
sitting there
the bread

was dried out
the luncheon meat
yucky and tasteless
the window looked out

on the playing field
sun was out
sky silky blue
she ate as much

as she wanted
and got off the stool
packed
her lunch box away

and left the room
and walked down
the passageway
and out onto the field

where she waited
by the fence
her satchel
over her shoulder

what you waiting for Frumpy?
a girl said
passing her by
she didn't reply

she looked
at the field
to see if the boy
named John

was out there
somewhere
she tightened her grip
on the satchel strap

boys passed by
a group of girls giggling
she felt self conscious
looked at her shoes

her laces
the way she tied them
I’m a bit late
John said

but here now
she looked up
and he was there
with his quiff of hair

and hazel eyes
been waiting long?
he said
no not long

she said
just come out
he nodded
and looked around him

she looked away
felt tense
felt her body shake
how about a walk?

he said
she moved with him
as he walked
from the fence

he spoke
of the lessons
of the morning
she listened

but didn't listen
the words seemed
odd to her floating
about her

she gazed at his hand
beside her
the fingers
the ink stains

on the tips
still he spoke on
and she moved her hand
close to his

so that
they almost brushed
against each other
her hand just inches away

he talked almost
non stop
his words spilling out
his eyes wide open

she felt strange
felt her stomach tighten
her legs shaky  
can we sit for a while?

she said
yes yes
he  said
and they sat

on the grass
near the upper fence
are you all right?
he asked

she nodded
folding her legs
under her
pulling her green skirt

over her knees
he went on
about the Jay he'd seen
about where it nested

and all she could think of
was his neck showing
where buttons were undone
the naked skin

his Adam's apple
rising and falling
and nearby in the woods
a bird was calling.

She waited for me
by the water tower
her bike by the hedge
her hands on her hips
her dark hair
hanging loose
untied by ribbons
or bow

I’d finished
my schoolboy work
at the farm
weighting milk
and cleaning out
the cow sheds

been waiting
she said

had to finish my work
I said

you said 1pm
and it's 1.20pm now

she looked at me
with an unhappy face

can't be helped
I said

where we going?
she said
are your parents home?

well my mother is
my father's at work
in the woods
a few miles away

where can we go then?
she said moodily

there's an empty cottage
down the lane
back there
I said

can we get inside?

no it's locked
but there's a shed

she sighed
maybe spiders or such
she said

maybe there are
maybe mice too

yuk don't like them

where to go then?
I said  

she got her bike
and we walked towards
the cottage where I lived

must be some place
we can go
she said

I knew what she was after
and I didn't want to
at least not yet

what about the woods?
she asked
must be a quiet spot there

I guess so
I replied

so we walked up the drive
a muddy drive with trees
on either side and bushes  

wasn't there a hollow tree
up here somewhere?
she said
that one we went to
a few months back?

I looked ahead
I remembered the last time
I took her there
she started to undress
and I told her it might be
unwise in case
some one came along
she wasn't happy that time
I knew she wanted
to have ***

but what if some one
came along?
I said

she had been moody
for hours afterwards

it's up on the left
I said

can we go there?

what for?

you know
we could have ***

I sighed
is that all
you think about?

when I'm with you
she said

what about nature
the trees
birds
butterflies?

what about them?
just because that other girl
you see is a dull cow
doesn't mean I have to be

she's not dull
she's full of knowledge
about nature
and wild life

O big deal
Lizbeth said

I stopped on the drive
looked back
from where we had come from

well where now?

where's the hollow tree?

up further
on the left
I said

so she walked on
and I followed
studying her swaying hips
and black dress
black stockings
and shoes muddied
by the muddy drive

the hollow tree came up
on our left
and she ran up to it
and went inside

I followed her
determined not to
no matter how much
she moaned and tried.

There is You,
my son, and You.

The You that died;
the You which we see
on rising
in photographs on walls
or framed or there
by the window;
the You staring back at us
from our mobile phones.

There's the You I saw
brought into the world
pink and small
and wanting to feed
and latch on
for the liquid food.

The You growing up
from baby to toddler,
mischievous, but loving.

The You growing
into manhood,
stoic and quiet
and brave, going about
in your own way
to climb many a mountain
of adversity
and reaching the top
and over it
and quietly smile
and unseen
in a corner, sit.

There is the You
of quiet talk,
of gentle words;
You of soft
under the breath swearing,
if the referee
had got it wrong.

There was the You who
became ill so suddenly;
the You who was let down
by medical professionals;
the You we loved,
the You whose heart
flat-lined and died.

There is You,
my son, and You.

The You who was taken
and the You whom we feel
around us still,
touching;
walking by
out of the corner
of our red rimmed eye.

All that Yakety yak,
Won’t bring the dead men back
Or cease the widow’s tears
Or the young girl’s sad fears,

Said Baldbrush, but that’s what
Happens after a while,
Once a war reaches a
Certain peak or enough’s

Been done and sufficient
Killed to make any peace
A viable option
And the primed pens be held

And the peace papers signed.
It’s that way in all wars,
Whatever the men of
History say or their

Pens write, it was that way
In Nam, and as before,
People dying, maimed, things
Done darkly as if

Insanity had held
All in its frightening
Hold, the weak and the young,
The elderly with their

Brittle frail frames and the
Brave with their forgotten
Names, sunk in the dark fields
Of battles and lost wars.

Alma notices
the minutest

degree of chill
from him. He

may make love
and he may not,

but she can sense
if he’s been else

where in times
between. She can

smell another girl.
That time he said

all those words,
brought flowers,

perfume and chocs
and such, but she

knew they were
for some other or

seemed as much.
She looks at him

sitting there, that
glint in his eyes,

that devil may care
stare, that smile,

but all the while,
there’s some other

girl’s assets he’s
musing, some other

he’s had or soon will
do, he’s there, but

he’s not with you,
she says inside,

keeping it all in,
holding back tears,

stomach in knots,
heartbeat racing,

wanting him, but
not, trying to act

cool, but all too hot.
She allows him to

make love, feels
nothing, permits

his kisses, touches;
wonders who he

pretends it is he’s
making love to,

which one he’s
kissing in his head.

He’s gone now,
she’s undressed

and scrubs him
off as much as

water, soap and
brush allows. She

lies in the bath,
water like menstrual

flood, slit wrists,
cool dampness,

soaked in blood.

Mrs Oldham
on the slow train
to the castle
held your hand

between her thigh
and yours
beneath her coat
although it was summer

and the day was hot
in case some one saw her
and told her husband
hey I saw your old lady

with some young guy
holding hands
but no one did
and as you walked

around the castle later
listening to the guide
looking at pictures
and furniture

and suits of armour
you couldn’t get out
of your mind
the picture of her

taking you home
while her husband
was working
and her dog barking

and her saying
shut up Napoleon
he’s here as a guest
and taking your jacket

and sitting you down
on the sofa
and offering you drinks
and talking of babies

and how her husband
didn’t want them
and all he wanted
was the *** side

and the *****
and cigarettes
and you sat there
thinking of how tight

together her **** were
under her pink top
and wondering
how she made love

and if she enjoyed it
as she brought you
coffee and sat beside you
her hand on your thigh

rubbing it upward
and downward
all the while talking
some music playing

some crooner
called Como
or some such guy
and her lips on your neck

******* and kissing  
you wondering
what her husband was doing  
and what he was missing.

I was looking
at the books;
nothing
in particular wanted,
just browsing
the shelves, titles,
authors names,
colour and pattern
of the book covers.

Then some dame comes,
picks out a book,
opens it,
has a look,
mumbles
a few words
(poem I think),
then takes the book
to the counter,
pays and sways
her hips out of there.

I pick out
a Bukowski
poetry book,
have a look,
read a few poems,
have a laugh
(the humour
of that guy),
think I’ll buy.

I go to the counter,
and still
the perfume
of the dame lingers.

I hold
the Bukowski book
in my hand
brushing the cover
with my ageing fingers.

She sat there
on the gate
at the back

the black skirt
raised slightly
showing knees

her white blouse
unbuttoned
at the top

a warm sun
on her head
of neat hair

she waited
for Benny
balancing

herself there
next door's mutt
barked at her

go away
she bellowed
Benny came

shooed the mutt
o it's you
why're you here?

fine welcome
Lizbeth said
all this way

to see you
didn't know
you'd be here

he told her
she climbed down
from the gate

and stood there
her small *******
pushing out

on the cloth
of her blouse
well I'm here

aren't you pleased?
she asked him
course I am

just surprised
that you're here
where to go

that's the thing
where we can
be alone

and do things
do what things?
he asked her

you know what
don't pretend
you don't know

she replied
the sun shone
on her head

and shoulders
reflected
in her eyes

(yes he knew
what she meant
but he said)

I don't know
what you mean
Benny lied.

Chanan studied Shlomit
from afar. She sat
with a man and a child,

talking, smiling at least
on the man’s part.
The child played games

on her mother’s iPod.
Chanan noted unease
in Shlomit’s features,

eyes behind spectacles
looked at the man,
more at the child,

whose tiny nimble fingers
played on.  The man laughed,
teased the child, Shlomit

eased out uncertain smiles,
hand on her coffee cup,
other hand in her lap.

Chanan took in
her sandaled feet,
the red painted toenails,

the hair pulled
into a bun.  
He watched as she

raised the cup
to her lips,
sipped,

gazed at the man,
talked.
The man, legs crossed,

hands holding
a mug of tea,
his head to one side,

seemingly to enquire,
spoke in turn.
Chanan over

his Earl Grey
watched the child
at play,

the fingers intent
on her game,
her mother beside her,

eyed her,
losing interest
in the man’s chatter,

touched
her daughter’s hand.  
Chanan sipped his tea,

looked away,
carried his images
in mind, set

a different scene,
of a different kind.
The man and child

not there,
just Shlomit
and he

setting sail
in a small ship
on a vast wild sea.

You walked from the Downs
having seen the sights
Jane wanted
to show you

the view of the farms
the houses
the sheep wool
caught on wire fences

the church tower
small
like some frail snail
and she talked

of birds and flowers
and having seen
this butterfly
(unknown to you)

and her finger pointing
as it fluttered by
and you took in
her dark hair

her eyes
brown lighter
in sunlight
her pale complexion

the grey dress
white socks
old shoes
(for walking on

rough places
she said)
and she showed you
the hollow tree

and you went inside
and sensed her
near you
the smell of apples

and soap
and you felt the need
to kiss her
but didn't

just let it pass
dream maybe
of having done so
and you listened

to her words
how you wanted
to take each syllable
and hold

and turn it over
like fresh fruit
and squeeze
the meaning from each

and when you reached
the lane you paused
and she smiled
and said

you're quick to learn
yes I guess I am
you said
and you took her

into the cottage
and your mother
was washing clothes
in the big copper

steam coming out
and she standing there
sweat on her forehead
and you introduced her

to Jane and they talked
and you watched
and saw how
thin she was

how small her *******
easing against
the dress cloth
and your mother

nodding her head  
and they smiled
and talked
and you wondered

how the fingers
of your mother's hands
got to be so red
and such

but guessed it must
be the water
and soap suds
and years

of washing clothes
in damp
and that old ringer
she used to have

and how you loved
to see the water squeezed
from it like clear blood
and Jane looked at you

and you wanted
to swim in her dark eyes
and find the essence
of her soul

then she looked away
and deep inside
you wanted her
always to be

and never
to go away.

Sitting in her wheel chair
Anne stared at the sea
from the beach
where I’d pushed her

from the home
her dark hair
toyed by the breeze
her hands

on the arms
of the chair
her one leg showing
from her short

red skirt
they say the sea
gives up its dead
she said suddenly

I nodded
they say the moon
is 283,900 miles
from the Earth

I raised my eyebrows
they say the stars
we see in the sky
at night often

have burnt out
years before
so that we are seeing
ghost stars

I looked at her head
the center parting
the straight hair
they say the sun

is 93 million miles
from our planet
I stood behind her chair
gazing at the sea

and the few swimmers
out there
do you hear me Kid?
she said

yes
I replied
I hear
then answer me

do you think
I’m talking to myself
like a loon?
no

I thought
you were thinking out loud
I said
no

I was telling you stuff Kid
she said
there was a pause
she scratched

the stump of her leg
Sister Bridget says
she's still a ******
can you imagine that?

Anne said
I looked at a ship
on the horizon
no

I said
can't imagine that
why can't you imagine that?
she asked

why can't you imagine
Sister Bridget as a ******?
I don't know
I said

she looked up at me
do you know
what a ****** is?
she asked

no
I said
that's why
I can't imagine it

she smiled
and looked back
at the sea
means she's not

had ***
with a man
Anne said
I see

I said
I looked
as she rubbed
her stump

with her left hand
are you a ******?
I asked
what do you think Kid?

I'm 12 years old
I live with my parents
I go to school
I’ve one

fecking leg
I wouldn't let
a boy touch me
if he promised me

the moon
yes
I’m a ******
I nodded my head

and looked at the sea
that's good
I guess
I said.

Sonya sips
the white wine
I sip beer

we'd just seen
Das Rheingold
by Wagner

in London
she is blonde
and quite tall

and Danish
what you think?
you like it?

she asks me
yes I did
very much

I reply
I’ve seen all
of Wagner's

Ring cycle
but not in
the order

he composed
why is that?
she asks me

how over
the four years
I’ve seen them

I tell her
she sips more
of her wine

I light up
one of my
cigarettes

and inhale
you know who
Jesus Christ

really was?
she asks me
Son of God

so they say
I reply
no she says

He was God
existing
as a man

with all man's
frail limits
in body

and in mind
Son of God
I tell her

not at all
God himself
no second

close person
just himself
being man

for a short
duration
in our sad

history
of being
then why come?

I ask her
just to be
to try out

our frail case
not to judge
or redeem?

I ask her
to judge what?
redeem whom?

He came to
act out His
acting role

in His own
sad drama
she tells me

Nietzsche said
God is dead
I tell her

so He is
we killed Him
she replies

looking past
her blonde hair
at the bar

I see Christ
beard and all
sitting there

drinking wine
preparing
so it seems

to fine dine
with some dame
dressed in red

alive still
in His role
as actor

and not dead
as is said
but Sonya

doesn't see
and sips wine
and I say

nothing more
but listen
to the tide

of the sea
on a far
away shore.

She remembers him well.
He was her mother’s best
Friend, the one she went to

When she was feeling low or
Out of some product he could
Go buy and bring to her that

And his brand of comfort. She
Remembers how he would make
That loud laugh and give her

Mother that hug he gave, that
Big hearted outward show,
Those blue eyes of his bright

As polished wood. She moves
Now out of the shadows, leaves
The dark just behind, sees where

Once her mother used to stand
And prepare lunch or wash dishes,
Where he’d come behind her and

Put his arms about her and squeeze
And kiss her mother’s neck. She
Remembers him well, she as that

Little girl, the one her mother never
Really knew, the one her mother
Gave birth to (a mistake grown up)

Her mother used to say when angry
Or wild. Never my lovely child. Yes,
She remembers him, the way he

Looked at her when her mother’s
Back was turned, the way he gave
Her thigh a squeeze on passing on

Through to do some job or some
Such thing to do. She recalls how
He crept into her room at night if

Mother let him stay and sat on the
Edge and stared at her lying pretending
Sleep. She sighs, moves through her

Mother’s old house now up for sale,
Soaks in the things that hold memories,
The chairs, the beds, the sofa by the wall,

The pillow where once she laid her head.
She stares out the window at the garden
And trees and hills beyond. She stood

Here once, when young and he came
Put his arms about her and squeezed
Her young girl ******* and laughed when

She squirmed away. Mother didn’t know
Of that or if she did she didn’t say. Not
Then not later, not even when she lay

Dying from disease and had only herself
To live or die for and no other to please.
What her mother didn’t know could fill a

Book, what her mother didn’t understand
Or seem to realize was that that man
She’d brought home had ***** her young
Daughter and spread like dark oil, his sea of lies.